Chapter 32
LYKOR
Lykor hated everything about this assignment.
Even flying on Trella—her wings stretched wide beneath a vast, indifferent sky—felt like penance, not freedom. The wind only dragged him in useless circles above a city far from the battle where he should’ve been fighting.
Wasting time caged while the storm raged elsewhere.
A weapon abandoned in its scabbard, left to rust.
His fingers twitched against Trella’s feathers as he glared down at Asharyn’s lake, bright as poured silver and serene in a way that mocked him. Essence churned in his Well, pulsing hot beneath his skin.
If something didn’t give soon, it wouldn’t be the world that shattered.
It would be him.
I need you to return to Asharyn.
Seven fucking words. Spoken like an order, weighted like a curse.
But before that—beneath the lake when they’d freed Cinderax—there had only been I need you.
No conditions. No distance.
And Lykor, fool that he was, had believed that version of Jassyn.
His gaze drifted south for the hundredth scorching time, eyes narrowed against the sun. From this height in the sky, he could almost see the Maw brooding on the horizon, its black peaks half devoured by a wall of cloud.
“Jassyn sent you here for a reason,” Aesar muttered from deep inside his skull.
“SO YOU KEEP REMINDING ME,” Lykor snapped back.
It didn’t matter that the decision had been tactical. Logical. Necessary.
For everyone but Lykor.
This so-called duty still felt like exile, muzzling him behind the fight. The pull toward the Maw—toward Jassyn—hooked deep in his ribs. The storm wasn’t in the clouds but in his chest, shredding restraint with every breath.
Trella screeched beneath him, tensing in a way that echoed the agitation rippling through him.
Something shifted in the wind.
Lykor stilled. A sharp tug pulled in his gut, like the sea sucking back before the break of a wave. His pulse raced, answering some primal summons buried in instinct.
Spine tight, he twisted in the saddle, eyes raking the vast stretch of empty sky. At first he saw only a flicker, a meaningless blur against the light. Perhaps a druid or a bird.
His vision sharpened, and the shape resolved into something undeniable.
Rimeclaw.
Flying fast. Flying hard. A monstrous spear of darkness, hurtling straight toward the Maw.
Every muscle in Lykor’s body locked—boots bracing in the stirrups, hands clamping on the pommel, fury collapsing and crystallizing into dread.
He could stay. Hold position above Asharyn. Follow Jassyn’s orders. Wait for those razorwings that would never show up. Let his magic rot useless while others bled for a battle he’d been forged to fight.
Every breath Lykor wasted above this city stole one he should’ve been spending at Jassyn’s side—where he fucking belonged.
And if he wasn’t watching Jassyn’s back…who was?
Lykor’s lip curled. He wasn’t the kind of male who begged. Who knelt or pleaded, groveling for worth like something starved.
He gave the orders.
Didn’t take them.
Except from the one who’d looked at him like that with those stars-cursed amber eyes. Like he was more than a weapon. Someone who was trusted.
And still…Jassyn had sent him away.
Trella shifted beneath him, feathers rasping against the wind.
Far to the south, Rimeclaw vanished into the stormwall. Lykor—too wrapped in his own resentment to realize it sooner—felt the truth hit like a blow.
Rimeclaw wouldn’t have left his grave water in the jungle by choice. No, someone had yanked his leash.
Lykor bared his fangs, a snarl serrating his lungs. The dragon would lay siege to the Maw with Galaeryn steering every strike. And that slaughter would be on Lykor’s hands if he didn’t stop it.
Turning inward, Lykor sensed Aesar bracing for the choice he’d already made.
“Portal to the Stormspire outpost first,” Aesar said. “We have one duty left before we go rogue.”
Lykor flung out his claw and complied, ripping open a rift to the rangers’ cliffside camp in the Dreadspire Range. Apparently that’s what he did now. Took orders. Bit his tongue. Growled like a dog with nowhere to sink his fangs.
Trella didn’t need the command. She veered toward the seam in the sky and dove, wings folding tight.
Lykor’s stomach lurched. His spine slammed against the saddle as the world tilted, then disappeared—wind howling, vision swallowed in a flash of void.
On the other side, the earth rushed up to meet them. Trella’s talons struck the barren ground, claws gouging trenches as she galloped across the plateau. Dust detonated in their wake, grit pelting Lykor’s armor. Flaring her wings wide, she caught the wind and skidded to a bone-jarring halt.
Through the swirling haze, the command tent came into view—the place where the rangers were funneling reports from the Maw.
Lykor kicked free of the stirrups and leapt. Warping midair, he landed hard in front of the canvas wall, boots punching into dirt. He strode past a chestnut dracovae standing outside before stalking into the tent.
Zaeryn—of course it was her—stood at the center, pointing at the illusion map hovering in the air. Points of light spun into formations—ships, dracovae, druid scouts. She conferred with Mara and Kal in a low, clipped tone, tension in every word.
“Start the evacuation,” Lykor barked.
Everyone straightened. Kal’s head snapped toward him, but before anyone could flap their tongues or voice their objections, Lykor cut them down.
“Rimeclaw is flying for the Maw. I’m going in. If we fall there, he’ll come for the city next. Move the civilians. Now.”
Mara’s eyes widened, just enough to betray a flicker of fear before discipline smothered it. She nodded, opened a portal, and vanished through it. She and Thalaesyn would scatter the civilians into the cavern network the wraith had scouted days earlier north of the Bramblemaw den.
That part would hold. They didn’t need him.
And he was still defending the city like Jassyn had ordered. This wasn’t disobedience, it was intervention. Exactly what had been asked of him.
That had to count for something.
Lykor had no intention of playing cave shepherd or crawling through stone while the king’s forces sundered the realms. Not when Jassyn stood in the Maw with death racing toward him.
Feeling the minutes bleeding away, Lykor’s jaw clenched. His gaze slid past Zaeryn and fixed on Kal. “Status.”
Kal crossed his arms, but Zaeryn answered first.
“That swarm of razorwings appeared,” she said, slicing a hand at the illusion map to mark their flight path. “They’re escorting the invading ships across the Blackreach. The rangers are engaging, but the summit won’t hold without reinforcements.”
Lykor’s lip curled, but he didn’t acknowledge her. “They confirmed Skylash’s location?”
Kal dragged his teeth over a lip ring. “Cinderax sent word that she lies within that tallest peak. Serenna and Jassyn are working their way down to free her.”
“Pull every fighter we have,” Lykor ordered. “Everyone goes into the Maw.”
Kal gave a curt nod, shifting into wings and scales. He opened a portal and disappeared through it.
Lykor pivoted toward the exit, urgency burning through him like a lit fuse.
“Ask if there’s news on my brother,” Aesar hissed before Lykor stepped out.
“SHE WOULD HAVE SAID SOMETHING,” Lykor muttered.
His stride hitched, legs locking mid-step as Aesar seized control.
Lykor gritted his fangs, cursing under his breath as Aesar drew them to a halt. He didn’t turn, just threw the words over his shoulder like a knife.
“The prince?”
“He’s leading the strike against the fleet,” the flight captain reported. “I’m due back to take command of the razorwing assault, but…” She exhaled sharply. “We’re stretched too thin. It’s going to be a bloodbath when Rimeclaw shows up.”
Lykor’s lungs strained beneath the pressure coiling in his chest. Jassyn remained the priority, but if Lykor didn’t risk confronting Rimeclaw, the dragon might tear the Maw apart.
Mercy had bought them this disaster. He’d spared the dragon, and that folly had left Rimeclaw weaponized under Galaeryn instead. That blood-debt belonged to Lykor now. The only thing left was to end the beast. Or stall him long enough for Skylash to be freed.
Whatever it fucking took.
“Take Trella,” Aesar urged. “She can join the fight.”
“NO,” Lykor growled. “I CAN’T SHIELD HER FROM LIGHTNING, LET ALONE A FULL ASSAULT.”
As if she’d heard the exchange, Trella screeched outside and clawed trenches into the dirt. Lykor didn’t need a translation. Somehow that beast knew. And if he tried to leave her behind, she’d level this whole outpost.
“There is a way, you know.” Aesar clicked his tongue, waiting for Lykor to admit it first. “If we’re portaling in, we shouldn’t go alone.”
Lykor grimaced, bile stinging the back of his throat as he turned to Zaeryn. He hated needing her. Loathed that he couldn’t defend himself.
But nothing gutted him more than knowing he couldn’t protect Jassyn without relinquishing part of the fight to someone else.
And not just someone who would say yes without hesitation. Her.
It didn’t matter that she hadn’t witnessed the moment he broke.
Jassyn’s mouth on his. Stealing the words he’d been trying to force out.
That kiss burned through Lykor’s restraint harder than any goodbye spoken aloud.
She hadn’t watched him walk away either, pretending every step didn’t shatter him.
Lykor would rather throw himself into the Maw alone, let the storm flay him, than shape the plea she was about to hear. Asking for help wasn’t strategy. It was surrender. And his pride felt the wound of it, pacing and baring its teeth.
But Trella would be the one to burn for his stubbornness. If he fell before stopping Rimeclaw or reaching Jassyn, then every sacrifice he’d made would be worthless.
“Fly with me.” Lykor hurled the words like an order. Anything softer would’ve exposed his throat. “Use your druid flame to help shield that”—he flung a hand at Trella pacing outside—“unruly beast. I’ll handle whatever the fuck Rimeclaw unleashes.”
Or die trying.
He almost snarled when Zaeryn nodded, her eyes softening with something he didn’t want to see. Pity. Or worse, understanding.
Outside, Trella snapped at Zaeryn’s dracovae, feathers flared and eyes gone feral. Agitated. A storm caged under her scales, ready to rip the sky.
Jassyn had sent him from the fight and expected him to stay gone.
Lykor was done pretending he could survive that.